Leaning over the edge of her bed, Bianca Hawthorne hurled a stomach full of bile into the puke can beside her. The lighting in the Infirmary was known for its warmth and accommodating dullness, but as Bianca pulled away from the can with a string of spit dangling from her chin, hundreds of bright white dots speckled her vision.

"Please! Turn off the lights!" she cried out to the physician, but her voice was quiet and coarse.

In the waiting room, her father yelled, "I just don't understand why you can't tell me what's wrong with her! Why weren't we notified?"

"Mr. Hawthorne, she has a fever," Doctor Campbell said, "and despite her behavior, it's actually rather mild. I'm only reading one-hundred-point-one. From what I gather it isn't viral or bacterial, but I highly recommend sending her to the hospital for further testing. I've done all that I can here."

Bianca was in a state of delirium.

"We do not donate all our hard-earned money to this school just for you to treat our daughter like this," Mrs. Hawthorne scorned. Bianca's mother, dressed in a butterscotch blouse and white cotton slacks, sat in the cot beside her. After tying her graying brown hair into a bun, Bianca's mother wiped the spittle from her daughter's lips with a warm, damp cloth and eased her into bed.

The room reeked of something putrid, like rotten eggs and spoiled milk. Bianca could smell it everywhere—in her skin, in her hair, under her nails, in her mouth.

"I need to shower!" Bianca wailed, trying to heave herself out of bed.

Her mother laid her back down. "No, no. What you need is rest."

Her father said, "We are going to send you to the finest hospital, princess."

"Please," she sobbed. "I just need to get it out. I need to get it out. I need to—"

"Bianca—"

"Please!" she screamed. "Just take me home! I wanna go home!"

Bianca trembled, scanning the Infirmary.

They were not alone.

In the corner of the room, the eyeless girl twitched. Her head hung limply to the side, gobs of black liquid oozing down her cheeks like gruesome tears. Bianca's own tears blurred her vision, and when she closed her eyes and opened them once more, the decaying girl was suddenly three steps closer. Bianca buried her face in her mother's breast, gripping the fabric of her blouse as if her life depended on it as she screamed and wailed.

Then, without further preamble, Bianca lost consciousness.

There were cracks in her memory from that point onward, and Bianca assumed that perhaps Doctor Audrey Campbell had sedated her.

She had not.

When Bianca regained consciousness, she was laying on her dorm room bed, a fluffy robe around her body and damp hair wetting the pillowcase beneath her. Her mother stood in the corner of the room, mid-sentence as she adjusted a crooked frame on the wall.

"—just to keep an eye on you, don't you think?" Mrs. Hawthorne turned towards her daughter, an expectant smile on her face

Bianca blinked.

What happened?

Wasn't she just in the Infirmary?

"Well?" her mother pressed.

It was almost as if there was an entire conversation that Bianca had missed and could not remember. She blinked once more. "Wh . . . what?"

"Oh, my goodness. I said," her mother began irritably, "it doesn't matter if you feel better. I think it's best if you come home for a little while. Doctor Campbell said they can approve a medical leave for up to three weeks without involving the courts, so—"

"Oh, but I do feel better," Bianca whispered, realizing it only as she said it aloud. "I . . . I can't leave."

There was a coldness that enveloped her right palm.

Bianca looked down and discovered a small, feminine hand holding hers. Her eyes traced the length of a uniformed sleeve and met the preternatural, glowing green orbs of another student. She was beautiful—round, apple cheeks and glossy blonde ringlets that defied the laws of nature in their perfection.

Slowly, Bianca recognized her.

It was the eyeless girl.

Except just like Bianca, she was better now, too! No blood, no grimace. Just a sweet, smiling face and the most beautiful, glowing green eyes.

But the bleeding countenance of the eyeless girl was also in the room, standing four feet behind Bianca's mother. With a bloody cross in her chest and an everlasting scream etched into her grisly expression, the eyeless girl stood quietly in the background behind them. Her arm lifted, reaching for Bianca and her newfound, healthy counterpart, but it appeared neither of them noticed her gory presence before them.

The beautiful, smiling girl tucked Bianca's hair behind her ear. "You can't leave yet," she whispered.

Bianca echoed her, nodding. "I can't leave yet."

"But are you sure?" her mother insisted. She seemed unaware of the blonde student's presence before her and the eyeless girl behind her.

Bianca beamed. "Yes. Yes, I'm sure."

"It's just so strange," her mother said, shaking her head. "Must've been some sort of fast-acting flu or something. Really strange."

"So strange," Bianca whispered.

"Well, alright," her mother said with a sigh. "You can stay, but I expect frequent updates from Doctor Campbell. I want you to check in with her everyday, and the moment anything changes, I'm taking you home. Understand?"

Bianca nodded.

In her heart, however, she already knew . . .

She was home.

Behind them, the eyeless girl's jaw fell open, and this time, the bleeding girl screamed so loudly, her battered body heaved with the effort, hitting the wall and knocking the photograph so that it hung off-kilter once more. Bianca's mother saw the frame fall, and swiftly shifted the photo back into place. As the eyeless girl screamed and bellowed her agony, it seemed neither Bianca nor the smiling girl had heard her at all.

It was only Mrs. Hawthorne who turned her head slightly, as if listening to a far-off noise. "Did you hear that?" she whispered.

The two girls on the bed giggled and shook their heads.

Bianca hadn't heard a thing.

◢✥◣

Emma Scott checked into the Maria J. Westwood administration office just after noon, her nerves jangling like the frayed ends of her red-plaid flannel. The night before had been tense, the fight with her husband prompting her to leave early and seek refuge in a cheap motel with little rest and a lot to think about. She wasn't sure why, but she had taken her time getting ready that morning, carefully French-braiding the sides of her auburn hair and pulling it into a low ponytail. As if the act itself could help her piece things back together. By the time she reached the clandestine reform school, however, her hair was already thistle with flyaways.

Tension fluttered her breast as she walked the opulent halls. The Legacy Gathering had transformed the school in ways she didn't think were possible. She recalled how awe-struck she had been the very first time she walked these halls, and now, as students and their families flooded the halls, draped in designer attire, sparkling jewels, and carefully coiffed hair, she had nearly lost her breath. Emma glanced down at her flannel and paint-sullied jeans, and wondered why she hadn't just worn her police uniform—at least then, she could have justified sticking out.

If I feel this out of place, she thought, then how must Rayne feel?

Hoisting the cooler higher on her shoulder, Emma pressed through the grand corridors, the rich scene of food and expensive perfumes pervading the air. She maneuvered past clusters of well-dressed families until she reached the Dining Hall, where she caught sight of Rayne Foster sitting at a distant table across from a man with jet-black hair.

The student turned her head slightly and spotted the officer. Her face lit up as she smiled and waved. "Officer Scott!" In an instant, Rayne sprang from her seat and rushed Emma with an embrace that nearly knocked her off her feet. "What're you doing here?"

"Whoa!" Emma said, stumbling backward. "Was not expecting a hug, kiddo. What got into you?"

Rayne pulled back and blushed. "Sorry. I'm just . . . happy to see you."

It was the blush, however, that caused Emma to drop the cooler and gently frame the girl's face with her palms. "Wait a minute," she whispered. "Let me get a better look at you." She pinched Rayne's cheek. "Oh, Rayne, you look so much better. So healthy. Come here."

Emma pulled the girl in for another hug, and Rayne, seeming defiant all of the sudden, tried to pull away, muttering "Ew. Gross. Stop it."

That was when the man at the table stood and turned towards them.

Emma stilled.

"Looks like you have company after all, Miss Foster," he said.

Emma stared at him. After the initial spike in her pulse, Emma's heart rate slowly settled to a peculiar and preparatory calm. Her fingers twitched, instinctively itching to pull her Glock from its holster, but she didn't have it with her. Per M.J.W. regulation, she had turned it over to the head of security before exiting the administration office.

But she recognized this man.

Those eyes. Pale blue, almost alabaster, nearly blending in with the whites of his eyes from a distance. Emma had not seen anything like them since the night of Rayne's accident—the night she saw that boy in the back of her police car.

"Rayne," Emma said firmly, unable to mask the concern in her voice as she put an arm in front of the girl.

"Oh. How rude of me," said Rayne, rolling her eyes. "Let me introduce you. Emma, this is my English teacher." She waved towards Emma and said to the blue-eyed man, "Dorian, this is the officer who frequently arrests me."

The man laughed, and Emma was wary of the sound.

He offered a handshake. "Dorian Matthews. Pleasure to meet you."

Frowning, Emma fixed her gaze on the extended hand.

Then she glared at his face.

Those damned eyes. She knew them.

"Pleasure," Emma finally said, accepting his hand with calculated caution and a heated stare. Without breaking eye contact, she said to the young girl, "So Rayne, you're on a first name basis with your teacher? Explain that to me, would you?"

"Oh. No, no," Dorian began, and he tried to pull back, but Emma gripped his hand tighter. A silent warning. She finally released him, and the teacher insisted, "Miss Foster figured out my name, and now she's developed a bad habit of using it. I've been trying to get her to stop that."

Emma regarded him with skepticism.

Rayne pointed to the cooler on the ground. "What's that?"

"Oh . . . I, uh, brought food." Emma picked up the cooler and threw it over her shoulder. She saw the feast awaiting Rayne at her table and muttered, "But it looks like you already have plenty."

The teacher said, "Oh, but I'm sure she's been dying for a nice home-cooked meal though."

"I really have," added Rayne.

Emma did not appreciate the man's two-cents and instead dispatched a glare that said, You're really lucky I don't have my gun, kid.

He seemed to have understood. "Uh. Well," he began, clapping his hands and retreating a few steps backward. "I don't want to intrude. You ladies enjoy the rest of your day."

"Wait." Rayne ran up to him and gripped his sleeve. Dorian looked back and forth between the young girl and the police officer as Rayne whispered, "There's more."

"Uh, more what?" he asked, but his smile was apprehensive.

"Similarities," she replied. "There's more."

"Um, we'll discuss that later, Miss Foster." He swiftly stepped away. "Enjoy your meal."

◢✥◣

Cole Bradford sat at a mahogany study table in the Maria J. Westwood library opposite his younger sister, Alaina, who was absorbed in drawing on a sheet of paper. She wore her favorite light blue hoodie, the one that always reminded Cole of lighter skies and better days—things he no longer had the luxury to appreciate. Lainey's long brown hair cascaded past her tiny waist, straight and sleek like silk, with blunt bangs that often shielded her eyes, and by extension, her emotions.

He never really considered that perhaps little Lainey had little emotions left to convey.

As they sat together, conversing in their usual way, the six-year-old narrated her world through whimsical drawings. Her stories were always fanciful, as tales from the mouths of babes often were, but sometimes, her drawings took on a darker, eerily prophetic tone. Cole remembered the time Lainey drew their house cat, bloodied and surrounded by wild dogs, just two days after the feline had run away from home through an open door. The very next day, their landscapers found the cat's tattered body near a known coyote field.

Now, in the quiet of the library, Mr. Bradford stood at a distance, his presence looming over their rare moment of connection. He pretended to peruse the heavy tomes on the shelves, but Cole knew better. His father did not trust him to be alone with Lainey—not after everything that had happened. Even the nanny was not deemed reliable enough to supervise the two of them together. So here Mr. Bradford was, reluctantly playing the role of watchful guardian, but Cole could see his frustration in the way he adjusted his tie. Cole glanced up from the table, catching his father peering over the edge of a hardcover copy of To Kill a Mockingbird, and Cole gave him a look that said, Buzz off.

But Mr. Bradford wasn't just a concerned parent. Babysitting his own children like this was interfering with business. Every minute he spent monitoring them was a minute lost in the pursuit of prestige. Yet, despite the inconvenience, here he remained, tethered by a distrust that was stronger than ambition.

The air was thick with unspoken resentment. Lainey, however, remained blissfully unaware, lost in her world of drawings and stories. Cole felt the weight of his father's scrutiny transform the library into another cage, the bars invisible but no less confining.

Lainey, with her hazel eyes cast downwards over her pencil and paper, whispered, "He knows . . ."

Cole hadn't heard her. "What was that?"

"He knows."

"Who knows?"

"He does."

"Who? Dad?"

"No."

Cole tried another question. "What does he know?"

Lainey pushed her mechanical pencil deeper into the paper, causing crumbs of lead to rise up around the tip of the pencil. She whispered, "He knows I'm special."

"Special?"

"Yeah, I can't come here anymore, my Cole."

"My Lainey." This startled him. "What do you mean by that?"

"I mean, he knows. He's listening." She spun that pencil with precision, biting both of her lips as she narrowed her eyes and focused on the paper. "He knows I'm special," she said again. "Special like Rayne."

Cole paused.

Now that he'd met Rayne Foster, his Pavlovian response to the word conjured images of the new girl's face; it roused his feelings of reverence, and subsequently, his newfound vulnerabilities as well. But Cole had to remind himself that the word actually held another meaning.

Rain. Water falling from dusty, silver storm clouds.

Lainey must have meant 'special like rain', but even that made little sense to him.

"Like rain?" he pressed, hoping she'd elaborate.

Lainey nodded. "I'm afraid he's gonna get me, too. He always gets them."

Cole assumed she was referring to their late stepfather. That monster was the reason Cole had to enroll in this godforsaken school in the first place. "No," he said firmly. "No one is ever going to hurt you, my Lainey. Never again."

"He doesn't want to hurt me," she said with a huff. "He wants me to hurt everyone else." As if remembering something, Lainey faced her brother and opened her eyes wide. Then, she unzipped the front of her backpack, withdrew a folded piece of paper, and handed it to her big brother.

"What's this?" Cole asked, flipping the paper over in his hands.

"For Lucas."

Lucas?

Lainey only met him twice. What could she have possibly drawn for him?

When Cole's fingers gripped the edge, Lainey shouted, "No! Don't look. It's not for you."

Cole regarded her with confusion and held up the paper. "For Lucas?"

"Lucas."

"Okay." He eyed the paper once more and looked up to see Lainey glaring at him. "For Lucas," he assured her, surrendering his hands to the air. "I won't look."

However, that was when Cole noticed what his baby sister was drawing on the paper before her. It was a young girl. Her hair was long, light, and curly, and she appeared to be . . . screaming. In the place where her eyes should have been, there was nothing but two dark voids and thick, black tears streaming down.

Almost like . . . blood?

◢✥◣

Pierce Harrington had been searching for Lucas for nearly an hour, growing increasingly agitated as the minutes ticked by. The Legacy Gathering was in full swing downstairs, a sea of well-dressed guests vying for attention. Lucas, as usual, had no family in attendance. If he had been bold enough to attend the event himself, he would have been swallowed by a crowd of sycophants eager to exploit his name for a chance to get closer to the Abbott Foundation.

Pierce's disillusionment had been gnawing at him ever since Cole had callously brushed aside Jackie's plea for help. The indifference left Pierce feeling like another cog in a machine—a realization that only sharpened as he realized how Cole's aloofness mirrored the very same self-serving behavior they both despised. Driven by a sense of deep frustration, Pierce's search for Lucas led him downstairs and outside, toward the soccer field. The air was heavy and still, the field bathed in the harsh, golden hue of the afternoon sun. There, Lucas stood—dressed in crisp white shorts and a snug, long-sleeve athletic shirt with a sleek golden design across the chest.

Lucas wasn't just kicking the soccer ball; he was unleashing a barrage of powerful, frustrated strikes against the brick wall, his face a mask of intense concentration. Each kick was more forceful than the last.

"Hey, Luke!" Pierce called out, his voice breaking through Lucas's rhythmic assault.

Lucas looked up, startled, his breath coming in ragged bursts. "Pierce? What are you doing out here? The party's inside."

"Could say the same to you," Pierce retorted, noting the tension in Lucas's posture. "Everyone's looking for you in there."

"They're always looking for me." Lucas resigned with a shrug, but the gesture failed to hide the annoyance simmering in his irises. He continued his drills, but his movements were increasingly erratic. "I'm not an idiot. They just want to get close to the Foundation."

Pierce nodded, relating on a level he had not in quite some time. The sight of Cole's father manipulating his own left him feeling confused and disoriented about his own role beside Cole inside this school. The weight of being treated like a pawn was all too familiar, and it always took him a few days to realign his sense of self, to disentangle his own relationship with Cole from the manipulative games of their fathers.

"They're all just out for themselves," Pierce said, glancing back toward the grandiose building behind them. "It's exhausting."

Lucas stopped his drills abruptly, the soccer ball rolling away as he wiped his face with the back of his sleeve. His shoulders fell a little, and he exhaled, the weight of the day finally taking its toll. "Out here, I'm just a kid with a soccer ball."

"I get you." Pierce took a deep breath. "I don't want to lose myself in all this." He met Luke's gaze, reflecting on the family his friend had lost and the sense of alienation he must be feeling. "How are you holding up? Is there anything I can do to make the day easier for you?"

Lucas hesitated. He kicked the soccer ball toward himself with his heel, propped it on his toe, flicked it up in the air, and caught it in his hands. Slowly, he walked toward Pierce, ball tucked under his elbow. "Actually,"—he scratched his neck—"there is something. Pierce, could you do me a favor?"

Pierce raised an eyebrow. "What's up?"

"Can you keep a secret?" Lucas asked, his eyes falling to the ground.

"Of course," Pierce assured him, but the guilt in Luke's voice was starting to make him feel uneasy. "You know I'm a vault. Always."

"I mean, from everyone. Even Cole."

Pierce paused, regretting this moment of selflessness almost immediately. Despite his current frustrations with Cole, Pierce remained his right-hand man. He struggled to find the proper balance between loyalty and individuality. However, Lucas had never asked him for anything before, making this request all the more significant.

"I can keep it a secret," said Pierce, ultimately choosing to align with his values, instead of a man.

◢✥◣

"Wanna tell me what that was all about?" Emma snapped.

Rayne studied the officer as she pulled various Tupperware containers from the cloth cooler and dropped them onto the table with a heavy thunk. "It's nothing," Rayne mumbled. "You seem mad. What's up?"

"It's . . . nothing." Emma stopped, looked skyward, and took a deep breath. She returned to the task at hand and began plucking plastic lids from each of the containers. "So . . . Dorian, huh?"

"Oh, he hates it," Rayne said, cracking up a little. "I mean, did you see his face? Freaks out every time. Hilarious."

Emma handed Rayne a paper plate. "You know, I recall a night when you spray-painted Bobby Bennett's locker right before Valentine's Day a few years ago. You remember that?"

Rayne nodded. "That was also very hilarious."

Emma sighed as Rayne began scooping a whopping serving of potato salad to her plate. "You had a crush on that kid."

Rayne scoffed. "Did not."

"Did too."

"Did not."

"Rayne—"

"I like messing with people. Sue me."

"Rayne. Listen to me." Her tone caused Rayne to look up mid-scoop. There was panic and anger stirring the officer's eyes and it startled her. "I want you to stay away from that man," Emma commanded. "Stay far away from him, and don't you dare look back. Do you understand me?"

". . . Excuse me?"

"I don't trust him. Now, promise me. Promise you won't go near him."

Rayne was offended. The officer would never be able to understand what Rayne was going through, what she needed to do in order to unlock the secrets of her past, the secrets of this school! People were dying for goodness sake! She needed Dorian Matthews if she wanted to understand her connection with Daniel!

What if . . . what if everything was connected?

Rayne took a sharp breath and exhaled slowly, everything in her wishing to lash out and rip the officer a new one, but something in her held back. "You drove a long way," she muttered, dipping her hand to withdraw a hard-boiled egg sandwich. "Why don't we talk about something else?"

◢✥◣

Cole stood next to his father, arms crossed over his chest as they both studied the little girl drawing pictures at the table ten feet away. Still disturbed by the gory sketch, Cole wondered if the traumas of their past would ever cease their hauntings. He leaned closer to his father and whispered, "How is she?"

"Better," his father replied softly, though his voice lacked conviction. He hesitated, then met his son's eyes with a mix of pride and apprehension. "Her test scores are off the charts. She's just been accepted—well, invited—to enroll in a school for the gifted."

"Dad, that's amaz—"

"In California."

The implication hit him like a freight train. "No."

"Cole—"

"Absolutely not."

"This has nothing—"

"Oh, sure!"

"—to do with you, Cole."

"It has everything to do with me! You just want her far away from me!" he bellowed. Remembering his environment, Cole lowered his voice to a menacing snarl. "You are not taking her to California. I forbid it."

"Cole Michael Bradford, I am her father. Not you."

"Oh, really? Where were you that night, huh? Where were you?"

"Cole."

"Where were you when he touched her, Dad? Huh!" In spite of himself, Cole raised his voice, capturing the attention of a few students two aisles over.

"Cole, hush. You're going to upset Alaina."

"I saved her. Not you."

Mr. Bradford eyed his son with a paternal uneasiness. "Son, are you taking your medication?"

"Oh, would that make you happy? If they just drugged me up and threw me in a cell somewhere?"

"Are you . . . taking . . . your medication?"

"Dad—"

"You know what happened when Elias stopped taking his medication."

"For the last time, Dad, I am not Uncle Eli!"

"Son, answer the question. Are you taking your medication?"

"Doctor Shaw took me off them two years ago," Cole spat. "Thanks for paying attention."

"I thought this place was supposed to make you better, but here you are, still looking at yourself like you're some sort of hero."

"I did what needed to be done. And I will never stop being punished for your cowardice!"

Boiling over, Mr. Bradford suddenly crossed the aisles, plucked Lainey's backpack from her desk chair, and pulled out a handful of papers. "What needed to be done?" Anger swelled the veins in his neck and boiled his narrow cheeks. He shoved the papers at Cole's chest, and Cole scrambled to catch them, a few pieces floating to the floor like lost feathers. "Look at this," his father growled. "Look at what you did! What you're so proud of!"

Numerous crayon depictions of fire sprinkled Cole's arms and the marbled floor below. There were people in those flames, burning and howling. According to the Marvel-esque speech bubbles, they were screaming, "Save me!", "Help me!", and "I don't want to die!"

The last piece of sketch paper that fluttered to the floor depicted a stick figure unmistakably resembling Cole, engulfed in flames and trapped inside a cage.

Mr. Bradford stepped toward his son, nose-to-nose, and the rage in his voice felt like a fist to his face. "Your stepfather is not the only one who stole Alaina's innocence, Cole. He is not the only one who robbed her of childhood."

Cole looked down, staring numbly at the flames . . .

The iron bars that condemned his stick figure doppelganger.

"You did that, too," his father sneered, "when you set him on fire in front of her."